And then there were 6

Evelyn Ousley Bailey passed away at 7:20 p.m. on Thursday, February 19, 1998, in the Jefferson Towers Intensive Care Unit of the University of Alabama Medical Center in Birmingham, Alabama.

She was 72 and the oldest of seven girls—Lucille, Merle, Norma Jean, Ann, Frances, and Sharon—born to Arthur and Elsie Ousley of Meridian, Mississippi.

Evelyn entered the hospital on Thursday, February 5, for repair of a leaking heart valve (a relatively common operation with a high success rate). However, ordinary words like "repair-a-leaking-heart-valve" do not do justice to the extreme delicacy of this procedure.

The surgery went well, but complications set in soon thereafter, and the surgical team had to revisit the area to remove a small blood clot. Then, a condition known as Raynaud's Phenomenon appeared. Basically, blood vessels exposed to cold contract to slow blood flow to conserve bodily heat. In a Raynaud's sufferer, the vessels contract too much, and the affected area—fingers, toes, and sometimes the nose and ears—become discolored and numb.

Sometimes the condition can be brought on by injury or surgery. Apparently, this is what happened to Evelyn, only the Raynaud's affected her entire body. During recovery, her heart stopped and had to be restarted. Despite heroic efforts over days, the doctors were unable to get her kidneys to function, and they could not raise her blood pressure sufficiently to begin dialysis. Without dialysis, time became the enemy. The doctors struggled, trying everything.

Initially, Fran and I had received daily reports that were positive, but by Wednesday morning, February 11, Evelyn's condition had worsened. We departed Houston by car and arrived in Birmingham at 1:00 a.m. Thursday, February 12. We checked in to the Best Western Medical Center Motel for a few hours of rest before joining the family in the Jefferson Towers waiting room.

The waiting room was a large "L" shaped area with offices and a small prayer room filling the space between the vertical and horizontal legs of the "L." The exterior walls were floor-to-ceiling glass that brightened the room with sunlight and helped chase away fearfulness and depression. By count, there were never less than seventeen (evening hours) or more than 128 visitors (during daylight hours).

Walking in, we met Lamar (Evelyn's husband), Phil (Evelyn's youngest son), and Norman (Evelyn's oldest son). Also present were: Norma Jean (a sister) and her husband, Monk Beddingfield; Merle (another sister); and Merle's daughter, Jolene James, and Jolene's daughter, Jodie, and her baby (Alexandria).

Everyone appeared drained. They had kept vigil day and night for five days. Lamar and Norma Jean had just returned from a conference with the doctors. The prognosis was guarded; they were visibly upset.

Ann (a sister) and her husband, Tom Hoadly, arrived from Los Angeles. Sharon (a sister) and her husband, Dan Kling, drove in from Atlanta. Lucille (a sister) and her husband, Tom Sofge, drove from Jacksonville, Florida. With all the sisters and their families gathered, we settled down and prayed for Evelyn's recovery.

The Jefferson Towers building was the original hospital constructed in 1938 as a Works Project Administration project (one of President Franklin Roosevelt's WPA undertakings). From this humble beginning, and over the years, the State of Alabama and the Federal Government have poured money into the University of Alabama Medical Center.

In 1940, when I was in grade school (South Highland) in Five Points South, just up the hill from the Medical Center, the father of one of my classmates (Frank Brunn) was a doctor in training at Jefferson Hospital, as it was known then. The house that Frank lived in was across the street from the hospital. It has long since been torn down, but I remembered where it was.

Today, the Medical Center is world-famous and a shining jewel of the State of Alabama. It extends north to south from 12th Ave South to 4th Ave South and east to west from 14th St South to 21st St South. This assemblage of medical colleges and hospitals serves upwards of 30,000 patients daily. There are over 16,000 medical students in training and 4,000 resident doctors with 12,000 other support personnel. Indeed, the Medical Center is the largest employer in the state.

We comforted ourselves by knowing that Evelyn had access to the most advanced medical technology and doctors in the world. We prayed for her condition to improve and waited. Lamar, Norman, Phil, Norma Jean, Frances, and Merle would visit Evelyn's bedside by twos and threes several times daily, as permitted by her doctors.

The days blended together. After the initial greetings, our conversations became perfunctory, even strained. We ate in the hospital cafeteria or local eateries and waited in the waiting room. We clustered together for reassurance. We wandered the halls, read newspapers, and strolled outside to break the tension. We teared up as the news became less and less positive with each passing day.

With his upbeat and kidding ways, Norman worked tirelessly to cheer us. Becky, his wife, quietly went about answering questions, checking reservations, making calls to family members not there, and trying to lessen the burdens on Lamar. She did a splendid job without calling attention to herself.

Phil, Evelyn's youngest son, is a private person who is very close to his mother and father. He internalized his grief and poured his energy into encouraging Evelyn during the three times daily that he was allowed to visit.

Teresa, Phil's wife, is another loving person who gives much and asks for little. Teresa had to come and go as her job permitted. Her parents kept their 18-month-old daughter, Haley. Haley is a dynamo of energy and great fun to watch.

Norman and Phil alternated staying in the waiting room all night every night.

How does one console a husband (Lamar) whose wife of fifty-plus years is dying? What can you say that doesn't add to his misery? I decided the best approach was being there and listening if he wished to talk.

Two volunteers staffed the front desk in the waiting room. We tried to help by answering the eight pay phones that seemed to ring all at once and constantly. Usually, a caller wanted to speak to a visitor or asked for an update on a patient. We would direct the call to the appropriate party. Helping was better than sitting idly by.

The ICU unit experienced two to three deaths daily. A call would come to the front desk, and a family would be summoned to one of the upper floors. They would take an elevator. Some would return crying, comforted by a staff chaplain.

One dreaded those calls for the anguish they would bring. I suppose concentrating all intensive-care patients in one building makes sense, but bad news seemed to affect all visitors and increase their anxiety.

As time passed, I noticed a bond growing between long-term visitors. We became friendly with Jerry Wrenn. Jerry's wife had been in intensive care for over three weeks with a spinal injury. Jerry spent day and night there. Talking to him, I learned that he was from Ohio and had lived in South Alabama for 17 years. Other than not wearing his teeth, shaving, bathing, and changing clothes often enough, he was not a bad guy.

Even in the worst of times, there can be some humor. For instance, after a few days, the sitting area we were camped out in needed cleaning. Norma Jean asked the cleaning lady to vacuum and remove Kleenexes that had been pushed down between the seats.

"Ma'am, I know what I'm doing," she said, her voice heavy with resentment. She continued her pantomime of work and ignored them. Then, Frances took up the challenge of motivating her. No action. Fran and Norma Jean became impatient. Eventually, someone complained to housekeeping, and the job got done.

Dan had to return to Atlanta; as a civilian employee for the Army, he was on call for the military build-up against Saddam Hussein. Also, Tom and Lucille had to return to Jacksonville for an important doctor's consultation.

Merle and Jolene remained with us for the duration even though Merle isn't well and requires rest. Jodie would take off from work often and bring Alexandria (3 months). What a joy to see her smile and play. Unlike many young mothers, Jodie willingly shares Alexandria with everyone. When someone holds her, Jodie doesn't hover about in apprehension.

One night Jolene insisted that we all come to her home in South Lake for dinner. She and Curtis, her husband, had prepared a wonderful meal that we all appreciated. One naturally feels welcome and comfortable around Jolene. She laughs, jokes, and tells funny stories in a droll sort of way.

By Thursday morning, February 19, we suspected that Evelyn was not going to make it. Still, we were shocked and saddened when the end came about 7:20 p.m.

Friday morning, February 20, Norma Jean told us that the viewing would be at Webb's Funeral Home in Meridian, Mississippi, from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. that evening. We departed Birmingham at 10:00 a.m. and arrived at the Holiday Inn in Meridian at 1:00 p.m.

Later, seeing Evelyn in a coffin at the funeral parlor brought home the hard reality of her passing. For the next several hours, as hundreds of friends and distant relatives visited, I heard many expressions of sympathy. People said things like: it was meant to be; she is better off no longer suffering; it was her time; she lived a good and full life and God called her home.

I grew angry. I wanted to say, "She was too young to die. If only the doctors had studied her medical records more before operating, they might have done things differently. Why didn't they delay the operation until she had fully recovered from her cold?" Frances and Norma Jean said later that they felt the same way.

I had to leave and walk outside to calm my thoughts. In our hurt, I suspect we all experienced some bitterness at losing Evelyn.

Saturday morning, we returned to Webb's for the funeral service. The Reverend Nickelson, Evelyn's Pastor, delivered a sensitive message on life and dying. He praised Evelyn's many contributions to her family and to the community through a lifetime of love and dedication.

Afterwards, we formed a procession and followed the hearse about 18 miles to the Causeyville Baptist Church, where a brief graveside service was held. The weather was beautiful with cool breezes and a bright sun warming the day.

People of Anglo-Saxon descent are a curious lot. We have trouble showing our emotions; yet we care deeply and we suffer terribly when we bury a loved one. We stand around stiff in our suits and long dresses making innocent, small talk in hushed whispers. Observing us from afar, one might conclude that we were wooden mannequins rooted in place and not making a sound.

When the service was completed, we ate lunch prepared by Evelyn and Lamar's friends in the church's activity room. Later that evening, we gathered at Norma Jean's for dinner.

The next day, on our drive back to Houston, I thought about Evelyn and what she meant to me. I first met her in 1961 after I began dating Frances. I saw her as a happy young wife with two fine boys and a fun-loving husband. In the intervening 37 years, I suppose that I have spent less than 60 hours in her company. This happened during one or two visits per year.

In our conversations, I found her to be compassionate, wise, and ever so patient. We had many discussions about the failure of our education system and what was needed to fix it. This was a subject that she cared passionately about. Even when I would tease her by making an outrageous comment like, "They ought to abolish all teachers' colleges," she never lost her good humor. She would give me a rueful smile and make her counterpoint.

When she laughed, she had a gentle but infectious giggle, like she saw through all our pretense. And I'm convinced that she did. After all, one doesn't teach small girls and boys for 35 years without learning just about all there is to know about human nature.

When the last tear has dried and there are no more sobs, the truth will come out: Evelyn stole a large part of our hearts. She will return pieces whenever we see dew sparkling on a wild flower, or hear a bobwhite's call, or smell cut grass on a summer day. She was for me a friend, a sister-in-law, and a true Southern lady. We are all the better for having known and loved her.